


I Can't Let Her Go

by SkywalkerBarnes123



Series: I Can't Let Her Go. [1]
Category: Blue Bloods (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Death, F/M, Out of Character, Suicidal Thoughts, Tragedy, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:22:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27687547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkywalkerBarnes123/pseuds/SkywalkerBarnes123
Summary: Eddie Janko-Reagan died ten years ago. Her still heartbroken widow recounts his struggles and his failure to move on.***TRIGGER WARNING: This is very dark and contains some suicidal thought.*** - PLEASE!!! do not read if this is a problem for you.I am really bad at summaries.
Relationships: Edit "Eddie" Janko/Jamie Reagan
Series: I Can't Let Her Go. [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2024710
Kudos: 8





	I Can't Let Her Go

**Author's Note:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: Suicidal thoughts - PLEASE don't read if this is a problem.
> 
> I am very aware that this is incredibly out of character for all characters. I am also aware that it is very factually inaccurate.

My world didn’t end with a bang, or a whisper, but rather one scream at a time. The screams (and tears) were mine but can be traced back to very specific points – very specific deaths. Ma’s, followed by Joe’s, then Vinny’s, lastly Eddie’s. Then I stopped screaming. 

Throughout our partnership, and relationship, my nightmares told me that I would lose Eddie in the line of duty, as she jumped in front of a bullet to protect a fellow officer or an innocent civilian. My dreams told me she would die a few years after me of old age following a long life together. As usual my nightmares were far more reliable as prediction of the future. A bullet to the back of the neck. The neck like Vinny and to the back like Joe.

I was mess after she died. Honestly, I still am. I was never promoted again, I just sat at the 2-9, 3 days on, 2 days off. This strange schedule gained mutterings of nepotism that I had fought my whole career, but I no longer cared. Dad probably was a big reason that my captain set it up so quickly after I returned to work – anyone else would have been fired for a reckless inability to do their job as the truth of the schedule was 2 days drinking, 1 day to sober up, 2 days working. My captain kept me chained to my desk by paperwork invented to keep me away from the public, although my broken state was never bad enough to deluded me into trying to go on patrol. Even with this blatant favouritism I only lasted another year at the NYPD before I took an incredible early retirement, my modest pension embellished by savings from side work at a law firm on Wall Street.

A year and a half later Grandpa died. I was late to the funeral, not nearly as sober as I should have been, and sat at the back on my own in an crumpled, dark grey suit - the permission I had received to wear my dress blues in honour of Grandpa’s service to the city pointless, as I had burnt them on the apartment fire escape a year prior, in a drunken rage - and I left early to avoid the media circus that always arose around the death of a beloved political figure. I was given an infuriated glare from Nicky before I left, while Erin left me a voicemail with the singular purpose of calling me a callous bastard – Danny’s wasn’t nearly as polite. Everyone else continued to ignore me, as had been the pattern for the last 18 months, which had been the cut off for my family’s sympathy towards my situation.  
Nicky became my lifeline, sending me birthday and Christmas cards, along with sporadic written updates. In return, I went to an annual check-up and sent her the results, as well as meeting with her once a month for breakfast. She, understandably, never forgave my behaviour at the funeral or treatment of the family immediately following Eddie’s death, but she seemed to understand that I still loved them even if my tattered heart no longer let me show it. If not for her intermittent correspondence the years since Eddie’s death would not have been as long as ten years.

Now I am sat on a hospital roof in a hospital gown with flask I secreted in my bag in one hand and a cigarette (another of many poor habits I picked up in the last decade since Eddie was killed), having left my I.V and monitors bleating back downstairs. I am writing an explanation to Nicky (and any family that she chooses to show it to) that despite years of heavy drinking, it was a damn blood infection that was going to take me out and pouring out my gratitude for her enduring and undeserved care and love that no one else had the patience for.  
The saying is that “you don’t know how much you love someone until you let them go”. It was true; no matter how much I told Eddie that I loved her, it was never enough. Now though, I can tell her again


End file.
